baby pink and mint green, brown eyed doe, curly haired princess, mary macdonald reincarnate, strawberry bubblegum, 'if i cannot climb, i will grow', robin buckley if she was bi, mint choc chip defender, ladybugs, glitter, autumn!
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🎞️: harry potter, dead poets society, angus thongs and the perfect snogging, dead poets society, wild child, call me by your name, marmalade, stranger things, derry girls, fear street, red white and royal blue, pitch perfect, mama mia, juno, nowhere boy, spider-man, barbie (2023), the hunger games, yellow jackets, IT, 500 days of summer, how to lose a guy in 10 days, to all the boys i've loved before, percy jackson, beautiful boy, i believe in unicorns, bottoms, challengers, do revenge, spree, little women!
📚: what a girl wants, boys of tommen, a million kisses in your lifetimes, to all the boys i've loved before, the cadence of part time poets, percy jackson, harry potter, just lovers (like we were supposed to be), crimson rivers, +more to come!
FANDOMS!
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DNI if you are:
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june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be
"The lighthouse shines for all. It does not judge who needs its light."
description: a soft, comfort-filled day of wandering through bookstores, walking through the park, laughing harder than you have in weeks, and being reminded that even on the worst days, you are still deeply loved. for anyone struggling lately, you deserve gentleness too.🤍
pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)
tags: eddie munson x reader, no y/n, comfort fic, boyfriend!eddie, soft and wonderful eddie, mental health themes, romp, bookstore date, comfort read, quiet intimacy, soft conversations, acts of service eddie, no fixing energy, tender moments, slice of life, lots of reassurance, everyone deserves an eddie tbh
TW: depression themes, mental health themes, comfort-focused fic
WC: 2.0k
A/N: requested by @chickpeadumpsterfire i hope you enjoy!
may is mental health awareness month!
just wanted to put a little extra love into this fic for anyone who’s been having a hard time lately. depression can be isolating and exhausting and sometimes all-consuming, and I really wanted this to feel gentle and comforting rather than “fixed.” you are not lazy, dramatic, broken, or difficult for struggling.
please take care of yourselves the best you can this month. drink some water, get some fresh air if you’re able, and remember there are people who care about you very deeply, even when your brain tries to convince you otherwise. sending all my love.🖤
Eddie lets himself into your house, quickly popping into the living room to say hello to your mom and your dog. Your mom gives him a warm smile and a “hello” before nodding towards the hallway.
“She’s in her room,” she says, then sighs.”Has everything been alright with you two? She’s been…” Her voice trails off, searching for the words.
“I’ve been a little tied up at work recently, but yeah, we’re fine. I’ll go talk to her.”
Your mom nods and grabs the remote, insinuating that the conversation is over. Eddie walks down the hallway towards your room, knocking once.
“Yeah?” your voice calls from beyond the door. He nods once and lets himself in.
“Hey, sweet…” his voice trails off, eyes scanning the scene.
Your curtains are still drawn despite it being nearly three in the afternoon. Clothes are scattered across the floor, half-folded laundry abandoned at the foot of your bed. An untouched mug of tea sits on your nightstand beside a stack of books and tangled headphones.
And you. Curled up beneath your blankets in one of his old Black Sabbath shirts, eyes dull with exhaustion. Eddie’s expression softens immediately.
“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time.
You offer him a weak smile. “Hi.”
He shuts the door behind him carefully, like too much noise might crack something fragile, then crosses the room and sits on the edge of your bed.
“You sick?” he asks gently.
You shrug.
“Tired?”
Another shrug.
Eddie studies you for a long moment, brows pinching together slightly. “Baby,” he murmurs. “How long’ve you been in here?”
You stare at a loose thread on the comforter. “I dunno.”
“That bad, huh?”
The thing is, he doesn’t ask judgmentally. Doesn’t say it with that forced brightness people use when they don’t really get it. There’s no come on, cheer up in his voice. No, "it could be worse."
“I’m trying,” you whisper finally. “I just feel…stuck lately.”
Eddie nods immediately.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know that feeling.”
Your eyes flick up to his.
He leans back against the wall behind your bed, fiddling absentmindedly with one of your rings sitting on the nightstand. “Sometimes your brain just decides everything’s heavy for no reason.” A small huff of laughter leaves him. “Makes getting outta bed feel like fighting for your life.”
You blink at him a little. “You get like this, too?”
“Sweetheart.” He gives you a look. “I don’t write sad metal songs for fun.”
That gets the tiniest laugh out of you. Barely there, but enough that his face lights up like he just won the lottery. “There she is,” he says quietly.
Eddie nudges your knee beneath the blanket. “C’mon.”
“I don’t wanna do anything.”
“I know.” He stands, then points at you dramatically. “Which is exactly why we’re doing something.”
You groan immediately. “Eddie—”
“Nope. No arguing.” He walks toward your closet like he owns the place. “We’re getting you outta this crypt for at least a few hours.”
“I look terrible.”
“Incorrect. You always look pretty. Next excuse.”
“I seriously don’t have the energy.”
His movements slow a little at that one.
“You don’t gotta be fun today,” he says. “Or smile the whole time. Or pretend you’re okay for me.” He glances back at you. “I just don’t want you trapped in your own head all day.”
You stare at him quietly while he pulls one of your sweaters off a hanger.
“And,” he adds, holding it up, “I was thinking bookstore.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “Bookstore?”
“Mhm. You can judge all the covers dramatically, I can pretend I understand poetry, then maybe we get coffee after.”
“…You hate poetry.”
“I hate bad poetry. Huge difference.”
Another reluctant smile tugs at your mouth.
Eddie notices instantly, pointing at you again. “That’s two smiles. I’m killing it.”
“Oh, my god.”
“Get dressed before I physically carry you to the van.”
“You wouldn’t.”
His grin turns downright wicked. “Try me.”
About an hour later, you’re wandering slowly beside him through the small bookstore downtown, the bell above the door still jingling faintly behind you. The place smells like old paper and coffee beans. Warm lighting spills across crowded wooden shelves, soft music humming somewhere overhead.
Eddie stays close without hovering; that’s the thing about him. He somehow knows how to be there without suffocating you with concern.
He lets you drift through the aisles at your own pace, occasionally holding up books with horribly dramatic summaries just to hear your commentary.
“This one says, forbidden love.” He squints at the back cover. “That’s code for emotionally devastating and poorly communicated.”
You snort quietly.
“And this one,” he continues, grabbing another, “has a shirtless man fighting a dragon, which feels ambitious.”
“Eddie,” you laugh, embarrassed.
“There it is again!” he gasps loudly. “The laugh! She lives!”
A few people glance over. You shove his shoulder immediately while he cackles. And for the first time in what feels like weeks, the heaviness in your chest eases, just a little.
Eventually, Eddie finds you sitting cross-legged on the floor in the nonfiction section, absentmindedly flipping through a book without really reading it.
He lowers himself beside you with a soft grunt, handing you an iced coffee. “Peace offering.”
You murmur a quiet thank you before taking a sip.
Then Eddie says quietly, “You don’t have to explain it to me, y’know.”
You glance over. “Explain what?”
“The way you’re feeling.”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the cup.
“I know sometimes there isn’t a reason.” His voice stays light, but honest. “Sometimes your brain’s just mean to you for a while.”
“I always feel guilty when I get like this,” you admit eventually. “Like everyone else is functioning normally and I’m just…” You swallow thickly. “Behind. Or like, broken…”
Eddie’s expression changes instantly.
“No,” he says firmly.
You blink at the sudden seriousness in his tone.
“You are not behind, or broken, or whatever that stupid internal voice is telling you.”
The words come fast now, certain and unwavering.
“You’re exhausted. And overwhelmed. And your brain chemistry’s being an asshole to you.” He nudges your shoulder gently with his. “But you are not broken.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly.
Eddie notices immediately, his voice softening again. “Hey,” he murmurs. “C’mere.”
You don’t even hesitate before leaning into him.
His arm wraps around your shoulders instantly, pulling you against his side while your face presses into the leather of his jacket. He smells like cigarettes, coffee, and the cologne he always steals from Wayne.
Safe.
“I know I can’t fix it,” he says quietly against the top of your head. “But I can sit in it with you.”
Your eyes squeeze shut as emotion climbs painfully into your throat.
Eddie just holds you tighter. No rushing, no trying to force positivity onto you, no acting uncomfortable with the ugly parts.
Just there; steady, warm, and real.
After a minute, he presses a kiss into your hair.
“Also,” he says lightly, “if anyone says anything bad about you, I will bite them.”
A watery laugh escapes you.
“There’s my girl.”
By the time you leave the bookstore, the sun’s started dipping lower in the sky, painting everything gold. Eddie insists on carrying your little paper bag despite the fact it contains exactly one paperback and a bookmark.
“You’re being dramatic,” you tell him as the two of you cross the street.
“I’m being a gentleman,” he corrects. “Huge difference.”
“You almost got arrested for stealing road signs once.”
“In my defense, they looked cool.”
You shake your head, smiling into your coffee cup. The park nearby is quiet this time of day. A few people walk dogs along the paths, kids chasing each other near the swings while leaves rustle softly overhead.
Eddie walks beside you slowly, one hand dangling at his side. At some point, your fingers accidentally brush his. He immediately hooks his pinky around yours.
It’s so stupidly gentle it nearly makes your chest ache, and you glance over at him.
“What?” he asks innocently.
“You’re corny.”
“Yeah, but you like me anyway.”
You keep walking, your joined hands swinging slightly between you. Then Eddie abruptly stops beside a duck pond.
“Oh, my god.”
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Why do you sound like that?”
“Baby.” He points dramatically. “Look at him.”
You follow his finger toward an aggressively round duck sitting near the water. “…It’s a duck.”
“That is the fattest duck I’ve ever seen in my life.”
You stare at him for a second before laughing under your breath.
“Be nice.”
“He’s got a fat little head like Gareth.”
The sound that leaves you this time is louder, realer. Eddie’s head whips toward you instantly, eyes lighting up.
“There it is,” he says softly, grinning.
“Oh my god, stop making a thing out of it.”
“I can’t help it.” He starts walking backward in front of you now, hands spread dramatically. “You have any idea how pretty you look when you laugh?”
“Eddie—”
“No, seriously. It’s like witnessing a historical event.”
You groan, embarrassed, but you’re still smiling.
A breeze pushes your hair across your face, and he reaches over automatically, tucking it behind your ear with an ease that makes your stomach flutter.
“You feeling any lighter?” he asks quietly after a moment.
You think about it honestly. The sadness is still there; you know it will be waiting when you get home. Depression doesn’t magically disappear because of bookstores, ducks, and coffee.
But right now? Right now, your chest doesn’t feel quite as crushingly tight.
“...A little,” you admit.
Eddie nods like that answer means everything to him.
“Good,” he says simply.
You keep wandering after that, aimless and slow. Eddie eventually starts trying to balance along the edge of the curb like a little kid, arms spread wide.
“Witness greatness,” he announces.
“You’re literally twenty years old.”
“And thriving.”
Two steps later, he slips slightly, windmilling hard enough that you burst into laughter again.
“Oh my god!”
“I meant to do that,” he says immediately, regaining his balance with what little dignity he has left.
“Sure you did.”
He points accusingly at you. “You’re laughing at me.”
“You made fun of a duck!”
“That duck knew what he did.”
“He did nothing besides have a ‘Gareth-shaped head’!”
You laugh so hard your stomach hurts this time, head tipping back slightly, and Eddie just… watches in pure delight. Your laughter slowly fades when you notice the look on his face.
“What?” you ask softly.
He shakes his head once, smiling to himself. “Nothin’.”
“Eddie.”
His expression softens. “I just missed that sound.”
The honesty in it makes your eyes sting a little again. You step closer without really thinking about it, reaching for his hand properly this time instead of just pinkies.
“Hey,” you murmur.
His fingers immediately lace with yours.
“Thank you.”
Eddie’s brows pinch slightly. “For what?”
“For not trying to fix me.” Your voice comes quieter now. “For just being here. Being your ridiculous, amazing self.”
Something warm and aching flashes across his face.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, squeezing your hand. “You never gotta thank me for loving you.”
And god, that almost does you in. He notices instantly, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around you before you can even try to hide it.
You bury your face into his jacket with a quiet laugh. “You’re gonna make me cry in public.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve caused a scene.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “C’mon. Let’s walk before I start getting emotional, too.”
dividers by @strangergraphics
i hope you all enjoyed:) sending love and light your way, always<3
- the morning after a terrible argument, you come down with the worst fever of your life. unfortunately for your dignity, Steve Harrington still loves you enough to play nurse through all of it.
- cw: sicky reader, fight, hurt/comfort, stevie being a sweetie pie >⩊<
no reader description (aka pic is just aesthetic purposes ^^) also inspired over a jeno fic i read a couple yrs ago and thought abt recently... if you know which one pls let me know so i can tag them :p
Steve thinks you and him are cosmically doomed to have the worst timing imaginable.
Exhibit A: the last twenty-four hours.
Yesterday you’d both had the same day off for once, which almost never happened anymore between Steve picking up extra Family Video shifts and you drowning in work all week. You ran errands together, made fun of the kids after they got too worked up from pointless arguments, argued in the grocery aisles over whether to get the E.T or Indiana Jones themed cereal.
It was normal. Easy.
Then somewhere between takeout containers and exhaustion and too many things left unsaid lately, it stopped being easy.
Steve couldn’t even fully remember how the fight started now. Something small. Something stupid. You accusing him of never talking about what he was feeling anymore. Steve snapping back that every conversation lately somehow turned into him doing something wrong.
Then it escalated.
Like it always did when both of you were too tired to communicate properly and too emotional to stop talking.
“You don’t even want to be here half the time,” you’d snapped at him.
Steve looked like you’d slapped him.
“That’s not fair.”
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” you shot back. “You barely look at me anymore.”
Steve ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “That’s not what’s happening.”
“Bullshit.”
The second the word left your mouth, you regretted it.
Steve’s expression hardened instantly—not angry exactly, just hurt.
“Seriously?”
But by then both of you were angry enough to keep going anyway.
It ended with Steve grabbing his jacket and slamming your apartment door hard enough to shake the walls while you cried in your kitchen.
Which would’ve already been bad enough.
Except you woke up this morning feeling like actual death.
By noon, your fever had climbed high enough that your teeth hurt. Your throat burned so badly it felt shredded every time you swallowed, and your chest ached from coughing so hard you could barely breathe afterward.
You held out until almost two in the afternoon before finally calling Steve.
Steve showed up thirteen minutes later with medicine, electrolyte drinks, soup ingredients, cough drops, two thermometers because “the other one looked unreliable,” and the kind of worried expression he tried hard to hide whenever he was scared.
He’d barely spoken to you since arriving.
Not mean or cruel.
Just… distant.
Like he was forcing himself to stay calm.
And honestly? You deserved it.
Right now, Steve sat at the foot of your bed with one leg bouncing anxiously while Back to the Future played on your TV. Every few minutes he glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were still conscious.
You had spent most of the day curled beneath blankets while he took care of you in silence.
He made soup.
Made you take medicine.
Refilled your water constantly.
Pressed cold washcloths to your forehead.
Cleaned your kitchen while you slept.
He even argued with Robin over the phone because she wanted to come over and “diagnose you dramatically,” and Steve insisted you needed rest.
But he still hadn’t really looked at you.
Not fully.
Not the way he usually did.
And every second of that distance sat heavy in your chest.
You pushed yourself upright slowly, immediately dizzy enough that the room tilted sideways.
Steve muted the TV instantly.
“Whoa, hey.” He stood fast. “What do you need?”
His voice softened automatically around concern despite everything.
Guilt clawed at your stomach.
“Just going to the bathroom” you muttered back.
Steve frowned immediately. “You need help walking?”
The fact that he was still asking things like that after last night almost made you cry on the spot.
You shook your head weakly.
Big mistake.
Your vision swam. Steve noticed instantly, moving closer without touching you yet.
“Easy,” he said quietly.
“I’m okay.”
“You almost fell over.”
“I’m dramatic.”
“No. You’re delirious with that fever you got.”
A weak huff escaped you that turned into coughing almost immediately. Steve’s expression tightened hard at the sound.
Gosh. You hated this.
Hated feeling helpless.
Hated knowing you’d hurt him.
Hated that he was still here anyway.
You shuffled toward the bathroom slowly while Steve watched like he was debating following you in case you collapsed.
Once the door shut behind you, the thin thread holding you together finally snapped.
You sank to the floor beside the sink with trembling hands covering your face.
Everything hurt.
Your body.
Your chest.
Your head.
Your heart.
The apartment felt too quiet without Steve talking to you properly. Every careful movement from him all day somehow hurt worse than if he’d just yelled.
You’d spent the entire morning thinking he was going to leave. That eventually he’d decide last night was too much.
That he’d grab the few things he kept at your apartment—his extra clothes, the Polaroids tucked beside your mirror, the stupid toothbrush he insisted on matching to yours—and walk out.
The thought alone made you nauseous.
A sob tore painfully out of your throat.
Then another.
Your coughing immediately got worse after that, sharp enough to make tears stream harder down your face.
You pressed your forehead against your knees miserably.
You were so tired.
Three soft knocks interrupted your spiraling.
“Sweetheart?”
The nickname nearly broke you.
“Can I come in?”
You couldn’t answer properly through your throat, so you tapped weakly against the floor instead.
A second later, the door opened carefully.
Steve stepped inside quietly before shutting it behind him.
The second he saw you on the floor, his entire face changed.
All the distance from earlier cracked instantly.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Fresh tears burned your eyes immediately.
Steve crouched in front of you carefully, close enough to touch but still giving you room.
“What happened?”
You laughed once weakly through your crying.
“What do you mean what happened?”
Steve’s eyebrows pulled together.
“You were okay five minutes ago.”
“No I wasn’t.”
Your voice came out smaller than intended.
Steve went still.
You wiped at your face angrily. “I feel awful and you’re mad at me and I know I deserve it but I just—” Your throat closed painfully around another cough. “I can’t do this today.”
The second the words left your mouth, Steve’s expression fell completely.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
You looked away immediately, ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” you croaked. “About yesterday. I know I was being horrible and dramatic and—”
“Hey.” Steve’s voice turned firm instantly. “Look at me.”
You didn’t want to.
He waited anyway.
Eventually, you forced yourself to lift your head.
Steve looked devastated.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Devastated.
“You seriously thought I was punishing you?”
Your stomach twisted.
“I mean…” you whispered.
“Baby, no.”
The tenderness in his voice hurt worse somehow.
Steve exhaled hard through his nose before sitting fully on the floor in front of you.
“I was trying to give you space.”
“In my own apartment?”
A tiny smile tugged at his mouth despite himself. “You know what I mean.”
You stared down at your hands.
“I didn’t know if you still wanted me around.”
Steve looked genuinely alarmed.
“What?”
“You left.”
His face softened instantly.
“Oh.”
The memory of last night clearly hit him all over again.
Steve dragged a hand down his face tiredly before scooting closer.
“I left because I was angry, and i didn't want to say something that i'd regret..” he admitted quietly. “Not because I wanted to leave you.”
Your eyes burned again.
“I said awful things.”
“So did I.”
“You didn’t mean them.”
“Neither did you.”
That shattered the last of your composure entirely. Another sob escaping before you could stop it.
“C’mere,” Steve murmured immediately.
He reached for you gently this time, hands warm against your arms as he pulled you across the tiny bathroom space until you were practically folded into his chest.
You went willingly. Like your body had spent all day waiting for this exact moment.
Steve wrapped both arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head while you cried against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.
“I know.”
“I didn’t mean any of it.”
“I know that too, baby. I know,” he whispered softly.
You clutched weakly at the back of his shirt.
Steve rested his cheek against your hair.
“I’m sorry too,” he murmured after a moment. “I shouldn’t have walked out like that.”
“You were mad.”
“Still.” His arms tightened slightly. “I hate leaving you upset.”
Your chest ached.
Gosh. You loved him so much. Even when things got messy. Even when neither of you handled things perfectly. Even now, feverish and exhausted and crying on the bathroom floor.
Steve pulled back just enough to look at you.
“You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”
You tried to answer.
Ended up coughing instead.
Steve sighed softly. “Okay, that’s enough talking for you.”
Despite everything, you smiled weakly.
“There it is,” he said immediately, relief flickering across his face. “Was wondering where that went.”
“Feel disgusting.”
“You look disgusting too.”
You stared at him in betrayal.
Steve grinned for the first time all day.
“Aw, there you are.”
You managed a watery laugh before another cough interrupted it.
“Okay,” Steve decided, pushing himself to his feet while still holding onto you carefully. “Bed. Now.”
“I can walk.”
“You almost passed out standing up twenty minutes ago.”
“Now you're being dramatic.”
“You almost walked into the wall.”
“…oh.”
“Yeah.”
He guided you slowly back toward the bedroom with one arm around your waist.
The apartment felt warmer now somehow. Like the tension finally dissolved.
Steve got you back under the blankets before disappearing briefly into the kitchen. You heard cabinets opening, water running, the microwave beeping.
When he returned, he carried fresh water, medicine, and one of your hoodies.
You blinked at it.
“Why do I need that?”
“Because you’re freezing and keep stealing my body heat.”
“You say that like you mind.”
Steve snorted quietly.
He helped you sit up long enough to take medicine, making sure you actually swallowed it before handing over the water bottle.
“Good?” he asked.
You nodded tiredly.
Steve adjusted the blankets around you again with ridiculous care before climbing into bed beside you.
The second he settled in, you moved toward him automatically.
Steve opened his arms immediately.
“Yeah,” he murmured softly as you curled into his chest. “There she is.”
You buried your face against his neck weakly.
He smelled like laundry detergent and the peppermint gum he always chewed when stressed.
One of his hands slid slowly through your hair while the other rubbed absent circles against your back.
“You scared me today,” he admitted quietly after a while.
You frowned sleepily against him. “Sorry.”
“You called and the first thing you said was ‘I think I’m dying’. I could practically hear your frown.”
“In my defense,” you mumbled, “I really did think I was in that moment.”
Steve pressed a kiss against your forehead after letting out a light laugh. “I almost ran a red light getting here.”
Guilt surfaced again immediately.
Steve must’ve felt you tense because he nudged your head gently.
“Hey,” he whispered. “None of that.”
“But—”
“No.” His hand moved to your cheek. “We had one bad night. That doesn’t erase everything else.”
Your throat tightened painfully for entirely different reasons this time.
Steve looked down at you carefully.
“I love you,” he said simply. “Even when we fight. Even when you’re stubborn. Even when you accuse me of emotionally cheating on you with Robin because I bought her mozzarella sticks.”
Your eyes widened weakly. “She was flirting with you.”
“She called me ugly twice during that conversation.”
“Ehh. She’s complicated. Playing hard to get.”
Steve laughed softly under his breath. The sound wrapped around you warm as a blanket. Your eyelids growing heavier by the second.
“Sleep,” Steve whispered, fingers tracing gently along your spine.
“You’ll stay?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Steve immediately pulled you closer.
“Try getting rid of me.”
Something in your chest finally loosened completely. You pressed one weak kiss against his collarbone. Steve’s hand stilled briefly in your hair. Then he tilted your chin up carefully and kissed you properly.
Slow.
Warm.
Apologetic in all the ways words sometimes couldn’t quite reach.
When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
“Get some rest, sweetheart.”
For the first time since waking up sick, you actually thought maybe things would be okay again. And tucked safely against Steve’s heartbeat while he held you through the fever and exhaustion and leftover hurt, sleep finally came easily.
like, reblogs, and comments are much appreciated <3
summary: go through an all consuming situationship between you & “king” steve harrington. you’ve always had a crush on steve, and finally get a piece of him, but steve wont commit to you. his pride and ego as “king steve” will always matter most to him.
c/w: porn with a plot 18+, possessiveness, king steve persona, jealousy, insecurity, dom!steve, shy!reader, dirty talk, degradation, miscommunication, toxic relationship, angst and fluff, arguing, manipulation, steve wont commit.
౨⋆ৎ inspired by august by taylor swift ౨⋆ৎ
prologue - one of the girls
chapter one - in case you’d call
chapter two - twisted in bedsheets
chapter three - beneath the sun
chapter four - so much for summer love
chapter five - i remember thinking i had you
chapter six - for the hope of it all
a/n: i am soo excited about this! ive gotten a few requests for a part two of my fic “one of the girls” and decided to make it into a series! ill be updating it here as i go, you’ll be able to find this post on my masterlist. if you’d like to be tagged as i post, comment here! you can expect the first chapter within the next two weeks. thank you sm <3
you feel a deep affection for the little girl who wanders into the store you work at unaccompanied and a deep vitriol for her seemingly neglectful father. when she is given over to the custody of her uncle, it's easy to see he's way out of his depth. less easy to see how completely obsessed with you he is. ( 9.6k words )
warnings : gun mentions, clear neglect of lena on baz's part, reader has an extremely strained relationship with her father, parental abuse, food insecurity, age gap (reader is twenty eight, pope is thirty-nine), mandatory tag for employee/boss relationship but mostly not really 18+mdni cw smut, reader is a bit of a perv (just a bit!!), female masturbation, voice kink/voyeurism? not sure how to tag it? inappropriate use of a platonic voicemail?
note : back to my roots with a long pope fic this is the first full length fic i've written since valentine's day why did nobody tell me???? i do intend for this to be a multi-part fic but that depends on if anybody reads this so if you like it please consider reblogging/commenting i actually worked so hard on this one and i'm really proud of it so i hope you enjoy!!!!
The craft store on Fern Road has been there ever since you could remember. Nestled between a hair salon and a bakery right in the middle of Main Street, it doesn’t get a whole lot of natural light once you venture past the huge open windows. Surrounded by a U-shape of shelving around all three of the back walls, most of the middle of the store is taken up by display tables or large metal crates of stock. There’s a system, so meticulously organised you could probably recreate it with your eyes closed.
Notebooks go on the left wall; A5 bullet journals on one end and A2 canvas sketchbooks on the other and everything else in between. Planners, calendars, to-dos to stick on the fridge, everything had a place. On the right wall were the art supplies, paint at the back and crayons at the front, organised by skill level, price point and colour. The back wall was for the more novelty items, mostly things that you only buy one or two of. Hot glue guns, easels, even a sewing machine that’s been collecting dust since you were in high school.
It had been there the day you got the job; fourteen years old and itching for something to keep you occupied outside of your house. Mrs. Rayskel had been a lot more involved in the operations of the store back when you had first started as its only other employee, but now she mostly leaves you alone.
The middle sections are the ones most likely to entice a child, you think. Huge metal crates of stuffed animals, short, open cabinets of bracelet making kits and paint by number books. There’s a table right as you walk in that has hundreds of different types of pens in dividers on the outside, the entire area of the surface taken up in thick sheets of paper meant for testing pen types, but really just being a place for kids to draw.
You’re assuming that’s what brought in the little girl sitting on the carpet now. It’s pouring with rain outside, early afternoon in the middle of the week, and you haven’t had anyone come in all day. You don’t mind the slow periods. You keep your work station clean and organised (one of the perks of being the only employee is you don’t have to worry about someone else fucking up your shit), you have your crochet projects to keep you company at the desk. Most of the time you put on a calming playlist of royalty-free music and mind your business until the early evening when you close. Mrs. Rayskel only works weekends now, so you’re in every other day from 8:30am to open until 3:30pm to close. You’ve got about two hours until you need to start your sweep (assuming anyone comes in at all), checking the pen caps have been put on, replacing sample paper, rotating stock for visibility, when you spot her.
She’s quite small, can’t be older than seven, sitting on the plush rug by one of the windows. You hire a carpet cleaner every three months to treat the floors here, and you know it hasn’t been very long since the last time. Still, when you approach, you only bend down on your knees. “Hi.”
You hadn’t heard her come in, and you’re not even sure if you were in the store when she did. You could’ve been in the bathroom, or taking a few minutes out the back door, or completely zoned out at your desk.
“Hi,” she says back, shy. She’s wearing a purple raincoat that seems to have done a very good job of protecting her from the downpour, her dark hair sitting loose around her shoulders. In her hand is a stuffed unicorn toy, and discarded in front of her is a pegasus. “Am I in trouble?”
You frown. “No, of course not. You’re not in trouble.” Where are her parents? You’re not sure if she’s old enough to be in school yet, but it’s close enough to midday that she should be there if she is. It’s not particularly cold outside but water is flowing down the gutters like rivulets, and you haven’t seen anyone walk by in almost an hour. “What’s your name?”
She shrinks in on herself slightly. “I’m not supposed to say.” Right, don’t talk to strangers and all that. That doesn’t help you.
You nod slowly, careful not to come on too strong. She’s quiet, most unaccompanied kids you get in here are little hurricanes, impossible to miss. You’re not even sure how long she’s been here. Surely not longer than ten minutes.
You tell her your own name as a gesture of goodwill, pointing to the name tag clipped to your sweater. “I work here,” you wave your hand awkwardly at the rest of the store.
She likes knowing your name, you can tell. She says it softly, stuttering over one of the syllables, before eventually shuffling in her seat and speaking up again. “I’m Lena.”
Okay, you can work with that. Step one is establish trust, step two is locate her guardians. Step three might be call CPS if you can’t get those two done before you close but the likelihood of that happening is extremely low. You have kids wander in here by themselves all the time, just not usually quite so young.
“Hi Lena,” you say gently. “Can I sit with you?”
She nods politely, still looking like you might scold her, and your heart aches for this girl. “I’m sorry for touching your toys,” she says as you cross your legs.
You couldn’t care less. “That’s okay. Do you want to play?”
Lena perks up, still hesitant. “Can I?”
“Sure!” You try to give her your softest, kindest smile. “Do you want me to play with you?”
That’s what really gets her, like she hadn’t been expecting you to offer your time. “Can we play with the ponies?” When she smiles one of her bottom teeth is missing. You never want to let her go.
“We can play whatever you’d like.”
Lena carefully gathers the unicorn and pegasus into her lap, examining them with great care. She hands you the pegasus. “This one is yours,” she says, smile threatening to take over her entire face.
You accept it seriously. “What’s her name?”
Lena looks at you like you haven’t been paying attention properly. “She doesn’t have one. Her name got taken by the evil magic unicorn.” She holds up the unicorn for emphasis. “She has to get it back.”
You haven’t played pretend like a little girl since you were one, but it was pretty easy to get back into the swing with Lena. Never just a game, always a full world with rules that spring forth fully formed, buried beneath layers of stories of princesses and ghosts. You remember how it felt to hold all of that in your head all at once, never about good prevailing over evil and instead how it felt to be betrayed, or forgiven, or loved.
You let her hold onto that for the next thirty-eight minutes until the bell above the door rings again.
“Lena.”
Lena smiles up at the man dripping onto the welcome mat just inside the door. “Hi, Daddy.”
Pretty much all bravado you’ve had about tearing Lena’s guardians a new one, simmering and stewing the longer this poor girl sat here with only a stranger for supervision, disappears immediately when you look up at Lena’s dad. He smiles politely at you in a way that scares you more than anything, barely glancing at his daughter. You’ve been yelled at by customers before, but based on the lump on this guy’s left hip you think this man might not be the yelling type.
“I thought I told you not to wander off,” he says, uneasy smile on his face. You think you might have read him wrong; not the type of man to yell in front of someone else.
Your metaphorical grip on the little girl in front of you tightens in panic. You had thought this entire time that what you wanted was for Lena’s parents to come and collect her, and of course you don’t want for them to have abandoned her. But there seems to be no secret third option where they just misplaced her and they’re worried sick and they took their eyes off her for a second and when they looked back she was gone. “We need to get home.”
Lena looks up at him like for a second she doesn’t recognise him.
This man is clearly her father, or at least another relative. They bear a striking resemblance, the features Lena is still growing into looking sinister and cruel on the older man. You wonder briefly if he’s always looked like that. If there had been a time when her father had been a kind and loving man.
Right now at least she looks like she knows different than to argue with him. “Okay, daddy.”
She looks at you, the same smile on her face that he’d given you. It looks lovely and gentle coming from her. “Thank you for playing with me.”
You don’t want to let her go - least of all without offering some big act of kindness. You want her to remember you, if she ever needs something to hold onto.
“Do you want that one?” You gesture at the unicorn in her hand and hold out the pegasus. “You can have them both.” You’ll take it out of your paycheque. Hell, you’d give her the whole damn crate. She had been so excited to have someone to play with.
Lena’s dad is already halfway out the door as she stands up, brushing her knees off. “No, that’s okay.” She leaves the pony on the floor. “Thank you for playing with me.”
She’s gone before you can figure out what to say.
You close up quietly, doing all your normal checks. You’re not quite sure what to do with yourself, mind stuck on the little girl with the purple coat. You don’t know what’s going on between her and her father. There’s a high likelihood that he’s just having a bad day, that he’s usually warm and affectionate and not someone his daughter has to be scared of. You don’t know this man, and you don’t know his daughter.
But you recognise the look on her face when her father showed up. She’s so small, barely up to your hip. You can’t imagine being her parent and not being obsessed with her. She’s clever, and articulate, and the story she dreamed up with those two stuffed toys shows that. Her father had a gun on him on a Thursday afternoon, in the middle of Main Street. She’s so little, she can’t comprehend cruelty.
She has to make up evil creatures to process things.
You think about her for a few days after she leaves. You kept both the stuffed animals behind the counter; it felt wrong to put them back on display. Who knows, maybe you could have been reading way too far into it anyway.
——
You never really learned how to shop. It wasn’t really a skill that you thought you’d have to learn, you supposed. Adults know how to do it, you’ll probably figure out how to eventually. At twenty-eight, you figure it’ll come to you any day now.
The store is always too bright, even though you always come in the evenings. Harsh, fluorescent lighting makes you feel like you’re somewhere more important than in your body. You’ve been standing in the cereal aisle for longer than you need to, one hand down by your side holding your basket against your calf, the other hovering over a box you’ve already picked up twice.
$4.49
You turn it over, reading the nutritional label like you’re expecting anything called ‘Cinnamon Raspberry Crunch’ to be even a little healthy. Most of the other cereals, less sugar, sit right beside it, all about a dollar cheaper.
You put the first box back.
Your basket has exactly three things in it: bread, milk, and a packet of penne that goes on sale every two weeks. You don’t need anything else, you never really plan on getting much. But you’ve been thinking about this stupid cereal for days now, since you last came in and passed it on your way out. You could just buy it. You’re almost thirty.
You can’t explain it, can’t verbalise, can’t even articulate for your own peace of mind the unease that comes from that box of cereal. Your chest constricts and you can’t form any rational argument other than the fact that thinking about buying it makes your head hurt.
Your phone starts ringing. The timing is almost funny.
You let it ring two full times, trying to control your breathing. You never understood how some people can just take a deep breath before doing something and feel braced for impact. It’s never really worked for you.
“Hi, dad.” Your voice wobbles.
Your father doesn’t bother saying hello on the other side, instead waiting. You think it might have been the amount of time it took you to answer the phone, but you don’t bring it up because you hear how ridiculous it sounds even in your own head. “You took your time.”
You shift your weight, glancing the other direction down the aisle to make sure there’s no one else around. “I’m at the store.”
“At this hour?” You can practically hear him deciding what version of himself he wants to be today. “I suppose you are a busy girl.” You don’t know what to say to that so you say nothing.
He doesn’t need you to talk to keep the conversation going. “Making good choices?”
“Yes, dad.” You feel like a little girl. Your father never knew what much to do with a girl. He’d call you sport and drag you places like fishing. “I know.”
“You have a few bad habits,” he says, like he’s spoken to you face to face even once in the last five years. You don’t think he could pick you out of a lineup if the cops asked him to. “Never quite grown out of them,” he says gently.
You stare at the shelf in front of you like it might save you from this conversation. “I know.”
There’s that silence again.
“You don’t have to stop,” he says, voice dripping. Disappointment slides into his tone like it knew it was expected. “I’m trying to help you.”
“I didn’t mean to snap.” It’s been a long day and you know you have a pile of laundry to fold when you get home. “I’m sorry.”
Your father exhales, long and slow. You have the entire time to ruminate while he’s making his mind up. There really is no rhyme or reason to him sometimes, it is left purely up to his whim. Sometimes a mood you think is a good one can sour in an instant. You’ve known him for how long and you just can’t get a read on him.
“Anyway,” he breezes past it. “I called because I realised you never paid me back for your electric bill last month. Remember? I covered it because you were short.”
Your car had died and you’d blown most of your savings on getting it fixed, leaving you short on your electric bill for the month. Your father had been practically a last resort, first spending hours researching all possible public transit routes to see if there was any way you could make it work. You’d given him the money back immediately when you’d been paid. Asking your father for anything has always made you feel like you’re disappointing him and when it comes to your dad disappointment can look like a lot of things.
One time when you were really little there had been a party at your house. You don’t remember what it was for — just that it had been really important because your dad said it was, and that meant everything had to be right. You remember more of the buildup than the party itself if you’re honest. The air was tight, so quiet that not even the house dared settle. Every day you would take the school bus home and every day you’d drag your feet longer and longer, anything to avoid getting home.
Your father is a perfectionist, you tell people now. Highly strung. Particular.
You remember being made to eat dinner on the porch that week, plastic plates balanced on your knees. You weren’t allowed at the table, your dad insistent you would make a mess. You didn’t think you were a messy child but your dad isn’t the kind of person you argue with. He hated cleaning up after you — that part, at least, had always been made clear.
The night of the party, the house filled up in a way it never had. There had been too many people, all too loud, all of them laughing like your house wasn’t riddled with landmines intentionally set to detonate around your father. You stayed outside, sitting on the stoop, watching the older boys from the neighbourhood ride their bikes up and down the street under the orange glow of the streetlights.
You could hear everything going on inside. Glasses clinking, voices rising, your father’s laugh louder than you had ever heard it before. Then a sharp sound, one that you knew could only come from the vase on the dining table being knocked over.
You had known what that meant, even back then. Something small goes wrong and everything else follows. The night would fold in on itself, people would leave too quickly.
You could hear someone inside begin apologising and all you could picture was your father standing there, shoulders tight the way they would always be right before he snapped.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, like it was nothing at all.
You didn’t come inside until you were sure the last person had left; nobody came to make sure you were in bed. You have never been sure of where you stand with him.
So you’re careful when you speak up again. “I did pay you back.”
He hums. “I don’t think so.”
You’ve barely been able to afford gas this month because of the extra money being taken out of your account. Your job is consistent and pays you pretty well but you still work retail
“I did, I transferred it. I’ll check-”
He cuts you off with your name, sharp and steady. “Okay, calm down. You don’t have to get upset. If you say you did then I’m sure you did.” He clearly doesn’t believe you. You don’t mind him being wrong, but to assign you facets of yourself that don’t really exist is what spikes your heart rate.
“Dad-”
He doesn’t let you cut him off. “No, I won’t keep you. If you can pay me back when you get paid, I’d appreciate it. Maybe this will take you to be a bit more responsible with your money, hey? Love you, kiddo.” He hangs up after you repeat the sentiment weakly, leaving you staring at the cereal, burning up under the fluorescent lights.
——
You’ve become somewhat of a creature of habit as you enter your late twenties. You have your small, solitary hobbies — your crocheting, your crafts, your scrolling through social media and seeing which of your high school friends are getting engaged. Spring breaks into summer and you spend the next couple of weeks preparing for the summer rush. The rain settles, giving way to a dry heat that has you grateful your car’s air conditioning hasn’t gone yet.
The store’s air conditioning is fairly reliable and since you’re the only one who works no one ever messes with your settings. The store is kind of a hangout spot for some younger kids who have clearly been set loose for the first time. They come in for the ever-rotating collection of board games, and you become somewhat of an unpaid babysitter.
You don’t mind, though. Most of them are polite and well-behaved, and you’ve always loved being around children. Most of the time they’re a lot nicer to be around than adults. There’s no small talk, no worrying about filling the silence, or being annoying. Most of the time, the type of kids who want to come into a quiet store and draw or play chutes and ladders for hours, they just like when adults pay attention to them. You hope you can make them feel important, even if it’s just for an afternoon. Education had been something you’d considered going into once you graduated high school but the workload and the student loans and the decisiveness of the whole thing had been too daunting and eventually you’d put it off for so long it didn’t seem worth pursuing anymore.
You keep the two ponies under the counter, kept safe from stock rotations and curious children by your careful hands. You protect them from dust, keep them safe. It feels a bit silly to keep them there, keep them clean and ready. You can’t bear to separate them.
The summer rush comes and goes and with it comes the back to school rush. You end up paying your father back a second time, too busy with work to have the energy to deal with the stress of it. You don’t think he has your address, but you also didn’t think he had it the last time he’d shown up at your place.
It’s perhaps the first day of the slow season, early in the afternoon, right after all the kids have gone back to school. You’ve done all the restocking, you’ve done all the normal cleaning, all the normal admin. You’ve even gone as far as to dust all the baseboards, you’re that desperate for something to do. Muscling through the boredom, you’ve finally settled in your comfy chair behind the desk, crochet project on your lap and calming music playing through the speaker connected to your phone.
The bell twinkles as the door is shoved open and you don’t even really have the time to look up before your name is being called, bright and warm. She’s not wearing her purple raincoat but you would recognise Lena anywhere. She looks at you sheepishly, like she’s just considered the idea that you don’t remember her.
You’re sure it must be something awry with you. So desperate for connection, to find the innate good, to understand everything in your life, you’ve always been incredibly quick to attach. Perhaps not attach exactly, you think, you’re probably less attached to Lena than perhaps the idea of her. You don’t have the best memory, it’s not photographic or eidetic or anything, but you remember faces and names. You remember people in your kindergarten class, and adults who showed you kindness, and customers you had completely mundane interactions with. You wonder often what it says about you the memories your brain has decided to latch onto, what has shaped you into who you are. Your preschool teacher scolding you for talking during nap time when you hadn’t been, being abandoned at the bus stop by a friend who promised she’d wait for your bus before beginning her walk home. One time, you had been maybe seventeen, down by the waterfront after a vicious fight with your father. You don’t recall what the fight was about, but you remember the little boy you had seen by the water’s edge. He had a bucket filled with seashells, and his grandmother was sitting on the sand helping him decorate a sandcastle with his findings. Eventually she’d stood up, dusting herself off, and told him they had to head home for dinner with his mama. The boy had cried something awful, tears and sobs, begging his grandma to just help him find one more shell. One more, just one more. Is it odd you can recall the moment with perfect clarity, feeling your own heart split in two just at the sound of his upset?
Lena has grown since you last saw her, and if she hadn’t referred to you by name you would’ve thought you’d projected her likeness onto a new girl. She beams at you with a missing tooth, skipping forward as if it’s been five minutes instead of five months.
She’s flanked by a man who is new to you, not the same guy who had come to collect her last time she’d been in. He’s staring at you when you look away from her, holding the door open for her to come inside and making sure he catches it before it slams. Blue eyes stare straight into you deeper than you think you’ve ever really looked into yourself, and he doesn’t look away at being caught.
He’s thick, broad in the shoulders and stocky in the chest. You squirm under his gaze, feeling suddenly like you’re doing something wrong by looking at him. Your chest stirs and you’re completely aware of every single one of your limbs.
“Hi, Lena.” Her smile widens impossibly far for such a small face. Your heart does the same thing. “How are you?”
She seems more forthcoming this time, telling you all about how she’s just started second grade, the friends she’s been making, how hard the classes are. She talks with a level of familiarity about her life the way only a second grader could, like it would never even occur to her that you wouldn’t have anything to compare it to. You discard your crochet project, scooting your chair forward and leaning over on your elbows to make sure she knows you’re giving her all your attention.
Well, almost all of your attention. The man she came with stands directly behind Lena, arms crossed as if he’d expect you to try and hurt her, and his eyes stay trained on you. You’re not sure if he’s just a starer — some men are; how creepy it is depends on how long it goes on before he tries to talk to you — or if he’s watching for something.
You kick off where you’re leaning, wondering if he might stop if you move. “I have something for you,” you feel foolish already. Chances are she’s forgotten, or she doesn’t even like horses anymore, or she didn’t even at the time but they were her only option. “People bought all the other ones but I remember you liked these ones.” You look like a fool holding out the two stuffed animals in your hand, not even knowing if she wants them. Lena’s eyes light up at the sight of the ponies but she doesn’t move towards them.
Instead, she looks up at her bodyguard. “Can I, Uncle Pope?”
Lena’s uncle Pope finally tears his eyes from you, looking down at her. His mouth pulls into a small smile, strained like he’s not used to doing it but fond like he can’t help it anyway. “Yeah,” his voice is crackly and quiet. “How much are they?” He looks back to you.
You wonder if he thinks you’re going to quiz him on your eye colour or something. You shake your head, practically tripping over your own actions to get ahead of yourself and skip through the first part of interactions. “No, it’s fine. They’re for her.”
Lena gasps, collecting them both into her chest with an iron grip. She thanks you and doesn’t have to be reminded, eyes shining. You get the idea that Pope has heard about the two of them before. He watches her glee, affectionate an albeit untrained smile widening on his face. “Do you want your pen things?”
Her eyes widen to saucers. “I can still have them?” Pope nods and Lena practically shoots off towards the stationery section, leaving the two of you alone. He turns to orient his body towards her instinctively, but he’s standing so close to you that you can smell his aftershave. It sends a hot feeling from your chest to your stomach.
His hair is thick and unruly, such a rich copper it almost looks brown in the warm lighting of the store. His curls look well loved but less well maintained and you find your mind stumbling forward again; what hair products does he use? Does he like it touched? Does he have anyone there to touch it? What would it feel like?
“She talks about you a lot,” Pope says, sounding like whatever the opposite of conversational is. He speaks like he regrets it retroactively, aching for solitude but subjecting himself to small talk with strangers. “Practically begged me to come here since she has a half day. I told her if she did all of her homework she could get some of those pens.” He mimes using a pen. “Y’know the ones, they smell like all the different stuff? Bananas and apples and crap?”
You nod. They’re just called scented markers, but you don’t feel the need to correct him. You picture him at a kitchen counter, trying to coax his niece into finishing a reading log with scented markers. You know Lena has a father, a man that she at least called ‘dad’ five months ago. What happened to him? Why isn’t he bringing her to get sniff pens? Is he still around, with his concealed carry and his seemingly cold indifference? That’s probably unfair, you don’t know this man, and Lena had clearly loved him.
But she looks far happier today than she had the last time you saw her, you can’t lie to yourself about that.
“She’s a good kid.” You have to assume. She’s lovely, incredibly easy to be kind to, but you don’t know her when it really comes down to it. “Seemed like she was having a hard time last time I saw her.” You shrug with an indifference that feels completely unnatural. “I wanted to do something nice for her.”
Pope looks over at her, taking the caps off the sample markers to smell them, then down at you. You feel real juvenile with your little crochet stars in your lap, you’re planning on making bunting out of them, sitting there in your work outfit. He’s clearly older than you by a significant amount, he’s probably got a respectable job, maybe a wife. You wonder what kind of family they are, both of them so different from Lena’s father. Perhaps you’re being unfair, maybe it wasn’t a gun, and maybe he’d just been having a bad day. You want to ask Pope about him, but you bite your tongue.
“You didn’t have to,” he says gruffly, looking down. He doesn’t have a wedding ring on, and the fact that you have noticed makes your cheeks warm. “Lot to do for someone else’s kid.”
You feel a little bit scolded, shrinking into him. This man clearly cares a lot about his niece, perhaps more than her father, you want him to think you’re good for her. Want him to like you.
You’re sure it has nothing to do with the fact that his biceps are too big for his shirt and when he’d been staring at you all the blood in your chest had stalled.
“I didn’t mean to overstep,” you say cautiously.
He blinks at you. The expressions that he’s shot your way have been nowhere near as emotive as the ones he’s given Lena which is to be expected on a certain level, but he’s really been giving you nothing.
He looks at you for so long you have to be the one to break eye contact. Lena bounces up to the counter, marker pigment around her nose with a pack of scented felt tip pens. “Oh, Lena,” you say, eyes darting back over to her uncle. He’s looking down his shoulder at her. “You’ve got pen on your face.”
“Sorry,” she frowns, scrubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. “’S’it gone?” She juts her head back to present to you.
You bend down to rummage through your purse, fishing out a pack of face wipes from the bottom. “Here,” you pull one out of the package and present it to her. “Do you mind if I wipe it off?”
Lena shakes her head, curls bouncing wildly. She’s got beautiful, dark hair, and she clearly didn’t get that from her dad. She doesn’t look much like Pope at all, and you don’t remember her father’s face with as much clarity as you’ll recall her uncle’s, but you don’t see much of a family resemblance between the two of them. He could be from her mother’s side but given that Lena is clearly mixed you’d made an educated guess that the two of them were brothers.
“Thank you,” she enunciates, nodding slightly on each word. You wipe away the pigment gently, catching sight of the way Pope watches you out of the corner of your eye. You’re not sure if you’d been overstepping when you’d brought it up but you’re pretty sure it qualifies now. You finish up, curling the wipe in your hand and sitting back. Lena looks up at Pope with a toothy smile. “All better?”
He nods at her. “Be careful with them. We can’t go to grandma’s if you’ve got pen all over your face.”
He doesn’t have that way about him that people who spend a lot of time around kids usually do. None of the fake niceties in the voice, there’s clear affection there and he’s good with her, but there’s a level of clumsiness there. The love had come naturally but the mannerisms are still forming themselves. Easy and wrought with the deception of labour in the same breath.
He’s holding a twenty out to you and you realise with a start it's for the pens. “Right.” Your face gets hot and you stand up to escape the feeling. You take the twenty, your fingertips tingling where they’d connected with his. They’re rough, calloused, and they don’t shy away from yours. You reach for the key to unlock the cash drawer in the till to get him his change.
“Keep the rest.”
He says it in a way that makes you not want to argue with him. You ignore that instinct.
“They’re four dollars.”
He stares at you again. “You have a tip jar, don’t you?”
Technically, sure. There’s a jar there that’s labelled for tips, but people rarely leave cash in it. You know his name but you feel wrong saying it. Yours is displayed on the badge you have clipped to your top. You tell him anyway, changing the topic.
Pope blinks, eyebrows furrowing. “Everyone calls me Pope.”
“Well, Pope,” you say as if you hadn’t collected that and tucked it away the second that Lena had referred to him. “That’s like a two hundred percent tip, so.” You turn the key and the drawer pops out. You tuck the twenty away and hand him back a ten. $5.15 with tax, $4.85 tip. "Happy?” You dump the coins in the jar. He frowns, which is more of a reaction than you’ve gotten the entire rest of the time, so you take that as a success.
Lena tugs on his sleeve. “Are we going to Grandma Smurf’s now? She said I could go in the pool, s’long as I wear sunscreen.”
Pope’s frown deepens slightly but he manages to fix his face before he looks down at her. “We can go now. You sure?” Lena nods resolutely.
You watch them go, Lena turning around to wave at you at the door. Pope looks right at you and raises an arm in goodbye. There’s a vein that runs down his arm and you have to duck behind the counter, mortified. When you make your ascent they’re gone but your face is still hot.
You spend the rest of the night thinking about Lena’s uncle Pope. You wish you’d introduced yourself with your surname so he’d been inclined to do the same. He hadn’t given you any indication that he had liked you in any way, so you’re not sure exactly why he’s got you all hot and bothered. He’s at least a decade older than you, if not more, but you can’t argue and claim that’s not your type.
He probably wouldn’t have captured your attention so severely if he hadn’t been so good with his niece. It had been something that you’d realised rather suddenly a few years ago; that you were no longer a girl but rather just a woman. You’d felt your whole adolescence that you were too young to be an adult. Mrs. Rayskel had hired you two days after you had turned fourteen, so when you woke up one day and realised that you were actually an appropriate age to be working, in your mid twenties. That you’re not a young adult, instead, an adult. An adult who thought she would’ve been in a relationship secure enough to at least be thinking about having children. Men your age don’t want to settle down, at least none of the ones you’ve ever met have.
But an older man with a niece he clearly adores? You have to slap yourself in the middle of stirring your pasta to stop yourself from perving on this poor man. You wonder if he’d mind.
——
You spend maybe two weeks having your heart race every time the door to the shop opens, and are rewarded for your diligence when eventually Pope does return, this time without Lena in tow.
You’re actually working this time, restocking the board games in the corner. You’re mostly hidden behind a shelf so you’re able to pretend you haven’t seen him and thus, act adequately nonchalant as he finds you.
“Oh, hi.” You’re kneeling on the floor restocking the bottom shelf and despite the fact that your skirt ends at your calves you tug it down self-consciously. “Lena’s uncle, Pope, right?”
He nods slowly, so slow it’s like it’s something he needs to process. He looks marginally less happy this time and you know it’s probably because his niece isn’t with him but there’s a small spark in the back of your head that whispers his frown is directed at your outfit. You’re being ridiculous, he doesn’t give a shit what you’re wearing. He offers a hand and you don’t even think before taking it. His hand is so much bigger than yours, and the vein on his arm bulges as he helps you stand. “Everything okay?”
You dust yourself off, looking down at your ruffled socks against your boots. It’s still been fairly warm during the day but you have errands to run after sundown. You’ve come to the conclusion about Pope that he might just be a quiet man. It’s not any disdain for you or anything you’ve done, he’s just a pensive man.
“What…” he clears his throat. Pope leans up to tug on a patch of his hair at the back, centring himself and speaking up again. “What do you do when you’re not at work?”
You perk up a little bit. There’s no way… he’s not asking you out, right? It’s probably that he wants to know which crafts you engage in, maybe he needs gift ideas for Lena. The answer is embarrassingly sparse, and you definitely paint yourself as a bit of a homebody. “Crochet, drawing, I watch documentaries sometimes…” you need to work on how you present yourself. If he wanted to go out with you before he probably won’t after this. “Then errands mostly.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend? Kids?” He asks bluntly.
“Uh… no. Why?”
He has the good sense to look sheepish at his abruptness. “Lena’s my brother’s daughter.” You can hear every breath he takes, heavy and with a heaving chest. That answers that question then. “I don’t know how to take care of her, thought this shit was meant to be easier. Thought all the hard parts about parenting were diapers and tantrums and she’s got neither of them. All I had to do was make sure she ate and did her homework and said please and thank you.” He lets out a hot rush of air. “’S not like that at all.” He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling.
You have no idea what he wants you to say. Did he come to vent — for parenting advice? Did he assume you must have kids based on how you acted with her?
“All that shit was fine when she had her mom and dad but now,” he looks down at you, and for the first time since you first met him there’s a different emotion behind his eyes. You don’t have very much to go off, can’t even name his baseline, but from the fluttering eyelashes and the furrowed brows this looks very much like a man out of his depth finally confiding a fear. “Now I have to look after her. Have to, get to.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how he did it. But I have to work, and she needs someone to watch her after school, and the sign out there says you guys shut before four in the afternoon.”
You raise an eyebrow at him, more surprised than anything. “You want me to… babysit her?”
Pope seems to realise that this is an odd request. Perhaps not the most appropriate, either. He clears his throat and pulls again at the curls on the nape of his neck. “You can tell me to get lost.”
“No, just…” you feel like if you don’t shut your mouth he might realise how strange this is. Most people would like to vet a babysitter, I’m a random adult you’ve met once, how do I know you’re not insane and won’t just dump her here and run away? “You want me?”
Pope gestures to you, your pretty skirt, your general disposition. “She likes you.” He shrugs stiffly like the action is something unfamiliar to him.
“When would you need me?” As much as you like Lena and as much as the thought of having him in a position where you’d need to see him every day makes your heart palpitate against your ribcage, this is your job. You can’t quit it for this, definitely not before you’re sure it’ll shake out. “Like after school? I’m usually here until four-ish.”
“She finishes school at three forty-five, it’s only three blocks. You have a car?” You nod. “Good, a license?” You nod again. “If you need to stay here to finish up she can take the school-bus here, stops down the street.” He points out the window, you’re too preoccupied looking at the way his shirt strains at the arm to see the bus stop. “If you can, you pick her up from school, bring her back here or to your house or the park or my apartment or wherever. Keep her entertained, make sure she does her homework and eats her veggies. Sometimes I’d need to work late, so she’d need to spend the night with you and you’d have to take her to school. You can do it at my place or if you want to keep her at your apartment that’s fine. School starts at nine but she can go in at eight if you need to be here. Plus weekends. Not every day, and not always that late. I just…” he looks almost embarrassed to need the help. “I can pay you.”
You’d hope so, for all that.
“Lena mentioned her grandma?” You ask gently. “Do you think Lena could stay with her some days?”
He looks at you as if he’s surprised you would bring her up. “No, I don’t want her around my mom.” He sniffs, looking away from you. “If you don’t want to just say it. Don’t have to make shit up to help me. I could give you fifty bucks an hour — what do you make here?” It’s not fifty bucks an hour, you can say that right now. “Double on weekends and for nights. Plus money for anything she needs, gas money for you to pick her up, money for dinner and whatever.” He’s almost breathless. “I can pay you.”
What the hell does this man do?
“Pope. It’s a lot to ask,” you say. “I can definitely take her on the weekends, and probably a couple of days after school. I don’t know about nights, but depending on where you live I could maybe swing by in the morning and help her get ready for school, drop her on my way?”
Pope looks back at you, some semblance of a smile twitching the corner of his lip upwards. It’s the kind of smile that makes it impossible for you to not smile as well, which is surprising considering it still doesn’t make him look particularly happy. For a guy this steely, you suppose any amount of joy on his face makes you smile.
“Why don’t I give you my phone number, and we can talk about this while I’m not at work?” What Pope and Lena probably need is a nanny, or at least someone who can full time devote themselves to Lena. You have a job that, while it awards you a lot of freedom, is something you couldn’t live without. And while you adore Lena, and you’re sure that’ll only grow with time, you need the money desperately.
Pope reaches for you and after drawing a complete blank, you realise he wants your phone. “Oh, sorry. I left it on the desk.” Your father has been calling you, upset that you’d fallen asleep last night and forgotten to reply to his message. You know what it’ll be, either asking you for something or scolding you. You haven’t the energy to entertain him at the moment. The two of you swap information and when he hands you your phone back he lingers.
“Do you like this job?” He asks quietly, cocking his head and studying your face. You nod, lost for words with him so close. One step further in and you’d practically be chest to chest. “When you were a kid you wanted to be a… craft girl?”
You can’t hide your snicker, ducking your head, and he frowns like you’d yelled at him.
“No,” you admit. “This isn’t what I wanted to do when I was little. I wanted to be a teacher.” You’ve never really told another person that, never had another person to tell. By the time you graduated high school you were lucky if your father noticed you hadn’t been home in days, and when you finally moved out at twenty he’d looked at you like he’d forgotten you even lived there. Now he calls you every week, which is nice of him, but you wished in the decade it’s been since you last saw his face you’d developed a thicker skin. Or at least the ability to not cry whenever he hurts your feelings.
Pope’s eyes light up. “See, you’re perfect.” He tilts his chin down to mirror yours like the two of you are sharing a secret. “This is basically like being a teacher.”
You laugh again and this time he doesn’t seem so offended. “Goodbye, Pope.”
This time when he leaves he doesn’t turn to wave at you, but it gives you ample time to watch him cross the street to his car. There’s a man there who snickers and punches Pope’s chest when he gets in, but Pope doesn’t even bat an eye, pulling the car out and meeting your gaze right as he reaches the edge of the window.
You look down at your phone. “Pope Cody…” you muse, looking at his contact information. You’re surprised he offered his surname at all, the longer you speak to him the less he seems the type. You smile down at it and startle, caught, at the sound of the bell. Your phone slips from your grasp and you bring up your other hand to catch it before it hits the floor. The app closes in the fuss, and with it goes his unsaved contact information. “Shit.” You hiss, looking up at the customer, a mom and two little boys who thankfully don’t look like they heard your expletive and put your phone down on the counter. You can only hope that he texts you first, you suppose you’ll find out if he expects you to make the first move.
——
It’s late when your phone rings. So late, you know it’s not Pope. So late you’re going to regret this in the morning when you have to get up and clean your apartment in the morning. You’re not not going to sleep, you’re just not trying very hard. You’re sprawled out on your bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, trying to fight off a headache.
It’s your father, he’s the only man with the audacity enough to call you at midnight on a Friday night. You’ll call him back in the morning, he has no way of knowing you’re awake to ignore him. You’re so exhausted, your sheets are so warm and smooth, you’ve been teetering on the edge of consciousness for a while now. The vibrating doesn’t even catch up to you until it’s almost finished ringing.
Your phone screen goes black again, plunging the room into the sub-darkness that only comes from the whole city being asleep. Then, it lights up again with a text.
Huffing, your face pressed against your pillow, you slap the mattress on your side until you finally wrap your hands around the device.
You have 1 New Voicemail.
Your father has never left you a voicemail. Spam callers might, but usually they’re unintelligible. Your phone will have taken a transcript as best it can, and you squint at the brightness. It streaks right past your retinas and into the core of your brain, making your headache worse.
Uh hey it’s pope Cody—
You scramble up until you’re on your knees, heart rate spiking. You can’t be laying down, not with your ears ringing the way they are. Based on the paragraph it’s not a super short message, and you bite your lip with delight when you see it’s almost a full minute.
There’s a feeling in your chest you can’t get rid of, can’t deep-breath or count-to-ten away. Itching for movement, you feel your hand start wandering up of its own accord from where it’s resting on your thigh upwards, slipping under the hem of the big t-shirt you’d been intending on sleeping in and finding your nipple. You toy with it almost distractedly, stuck in limbo of being desperate to rake your eyes over his words and wanting to hear him.
God, how tragic are you? Your nipples are both hard already and perhaps it’s just from the breeze drifting through the open window but you also feel a throb of neediness light up your core. You roll onto your back, clenching your thighs together. This is a line you shouldn’t cross. Sure, it’s late, you’re horny, whatever. But this guy is about to be your boss, you should be able to listen to a voicemail without needing to touch yourself.
He’s such a serious man, you can’t imagine what he’d say if he saw the state of you, shirt lifted just below your breasts, soaking a damp patch into the front of your panties. The only way you’re going to be able to get through the message is going to be to get yourself off first like a teenage boy trying not to get a boner on a first date.
Pope’s also painfully awkward and it really does it for you. From the way he moves, to the faces he makes, to the way he talks. Fuck, the way he talks. You let your phone rest on your chest and your other hand finds its way down underneath your panties.
You haven’t been fucked in a while but you’re way more turned on than you have any right to be. You don’t bother teasing yourself, pressing the flat of two fingers against your clit. Your hips buck at the feeling, clearly more untouched than you thought.
Your fingers aren’t as thick as his, and you can’t help the perversions that cross your mind at the thought of Pope. How would he touch you? Would it be clumsy? He’s pretty assertive, perhaps that would overtake the awkwardness. You let a whine escape your bitten lips into the darkness of your bedroom as you rub your clit.
Fuck this, you reach for the phone blindly, half blinded with the vision of his hand shoving yours out the way. You fumble for the button, but after a little while his voice rings out in your bedroom.
“Uh,” he coughs. “Hey, it’s Pope Cody.” Two of your fingers slide inside, your other hand coming to replace the fingers at your clit. The position is awkward but you can’t focus on anything but the sound of his voice, already humiliatingly close. His voice is low and the phone quality crackles but it mimics the grooves of his voice well enough you don’t even care. “Look, I know it’s late but do you think you can call me in the morning? I don’t know how this thing usually works, the whole babysitter thing.” His fingers would probably get deeper than yours, but you curve them slightly until they hit your sweet spot.
Frustrated with the limitations the fabric is giving, you pull both your hands out and shove your underwear down your legs, letting it slip off your foot and onto the floor of your bedroom. “And you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
“Fuck,” you hiss, drawing your fingers from your hole and fucking them back into yourself slowly. He seems like the type of man who would take his time, or maybe that’s just you projecting for slowing down so you don’t cum before he’s even done talking.
“And I’m sorry about ambushing you at work, it felt like the best place to come talk to you. I won’t come by again, if you don’t want. But I want to see you.”
You’re only halfway through it and you can already feel an orgasm forming. It’s downright sinful the things you want him to do to you.
“I need to talk to you, I mean. About Lena. And about… yeah. I know this is probably stupid as shit but I’m way in over my head here so… Whatever it is you want to do, I’ll do it. You want more money?”
You bring the hand rubbing your clit up to your mouth to sink your teeth into the back, instead grinding on the palm of the hand you’re using to finger yourself. The walls in your apartment are thick enough you don’t have to worry about making a small amount of noise, but you don’t need Erin and Carlos from next door to hear you whining. “Anything you want. Anything.” You can practically feel him breathing into your ear. Anything you want.
He says your name, low and deep and you tip into your orgasm, back arching against your sheets and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. They’re clenched shut, white filling your vision, and his face lives on your eyelids. Those big, sad eyes. Thick fingers and thicker arms.
He’s gruff, and unsmiling and awkward and stiff, but Pope doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to get hung up on rules. He’s older than you, and he’s about to be your boss, and you realise with a thrill that you don’t think that would stop him if he wanted you.
“Or if you don’t want or, or you can’t or whatever. Then if you know anyone, or like, a way I can find a babysitter? I don’t fuckin’ know… Thanks for the help. I’m around, if you want to call me when you’re not asleep. Okay.” He ends the message without a goodbye.
Your eyes are practically glued shut, walls fluttering around your fingers as your breathing slowly returns to normal. How the fuck are you meant to work this job? You can’t even listen to the man talk for a full minute without soaking through your underwear.
You don’t remember falling asleep, you wake up with a rumpled shirt and a new pair of panties you must’ve slipped on in a daze. It’s a Saturday, so you don’t have to get up if you don’t really want to. You have chores to do and sleep to catch up on, you can hear the faint sound of rain picking up outside. Perfect circumstances for a day at home, resetting and fixing yourself up on one of your two days off.
Instead, you roll over and immediately reach for your phone.
Hey, sorry! I fell asleep and didn’t get your call. I’m free today, I’d love to see you. You chicken out and tack onto the end and Lena! I can come over to your place or we can meet somewhere else?
You barely have time to close your eyes again before your phone is vibrating in your hand, once, then twice. The first message is an address. The second: give me an hour.
You roll back onto your stomach and try to stop yourself from screaming into your pillow.
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ forced to work as a cashier at a family owned grocery store, you believe your life is over. until a hot older guy with a staring problem comes in once. and then, never again. not for three years. suddenly, he’s back. and you’ll make sure you never lose him again.
── warnings . . . not canon whatsoever. completely different universe with some of the same plot. cannot reiterate enough, this is completely big AU. lewd talks, curse words, bad jokes, sorta obsessive and stalker-ish!reader. will add more as the story progresses
── pairing . . . fem!reader x andrew “pope” cody
── note . . . this is me coping from that end. have to make a cute little smau
ᘛᰍ𝅄 ׁ 𝓙.𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄 : Early nights in white sheets.
♡. 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐬 : You and Jason have been together for a few months, but he's not very good in bed. He does a lot of research to give you a mind blowing time!
Jason Grace had always been the type to overthink everything, from sword fights to the way he tied his sneakers. It wasn't that he lacked confidence— hell, he'd faced down monsters without flinching— but when it came to you, things got oh! so messy in his head.
You'd been together for months now, a whirlwind of kisses and late-night talks, but sex? That was still new territory. Jason was a virgin before you; his life was packed with quests and duties to explore much else.
And you? You were the one who'd gently pulled him into it, showing him the ropes— or rather, the sheets— on those rare nights when the world let him take a breathe.
It started simple.
The first time, in the dim glow of his cabin, you'd straddled him, guiding his hands to your hips as you sank down onto his cock. Jason's eyes had widened, his breath hitching at the feeling of your pretty cunt clenching.
He was thick— impressively so, the kind of girth that stretched you in ways that made your toes curl— but he didn't know what to do with it !
He laid there, mostly passive, letting you set the pace while he gripped the bedframe like it was his lifeline. You rode him slow, feeling him throb inside you, but it was all instinct for him, no rhythm and definitely no drive.
You'd come, sure, grinding against him until the pressure built and shattered, but Jason? He finished pathetically quick, spilling outside with a groan that sounded half-apologetic. Afterward, he'd hold you close, whispering how amazing you felt, but you could see the frustration in his eyes. He wanted to be better for you.
That became the pattern.
Jason underneath, you on top, controlling the ride. He'd thrust up sometimes, tentative, his hands roaming your breasts or ass, but it was always you leading.
You didn't mind— his eagerness was endearing, and that thick dick of his filled you up just right. He even thrusted up into you with all the enthusiasm of a guy desperate to please from time to time, but it was pretty much always the same: quick, predictable, leaving you satisfied but not exactly screaming. You'd come, no doubt, but he knew it wasn't fireworks for you.
Little did you know, Jason was already plotting his redemption arc !
Starting with asking Leo for a laptop without dying of embarrassment in the attempt... Anyways! Once he got it, he immediately started investigating.
It was as innocent as it could be.
One night, after you'd left his cabin with a kiss, Jason couldn't shake the frustration gnawing at him. He was built like a god— tall, broad-shouldered, with that chiseled jaw and a body honed from years of discipline in the roman legion— but in bed, he felt like a rookie fumbling the ball.
So, alone in the dim glow of his new laptop, he dove in. Porn first, the kind with titles promising "mind-blowing technique" and close-up shots of couples who looked like they were inventing new laws of physics. Then articles, forums, even a dog-eared book on anatomy he'd swiped from a roadside library box because he knew that pornography was not a reliable source for pleasing a woman..
He watched how guys used their mouths, their hands, the way they'd build tension instead of rushing to the end. Jason took notes while his cock hardened because he imagined practicing on you. He wanted to erase that look of polite pleasure from your face and replace it with something raw, something that made you cry of pleasure.
Now, here you were again, grinning as you tugged at the hem of your shirt.
"Missed you," you say, your voice so soft. How could Jason deny you anything?
Jason swallowed. "Mh, yeah? We saw eachother at breakfast."
He adjusted his glasses, but you were already closing the distance, your hand brushing his arm.
"But I can miss my boyfriend," your hands slided under his shirt to feel the hard planes of his abs.
And like that the clothes disappeared after some kisses.
You pushed him down gently, like always, straddling his hips. Jason's cock was already hard, thick and straining against your thigh, a detail he'd always been shy about, never knowing how to wield it beyond the basics.
You guided him inside you, sinking down slowly, and he groaned, hands gripping your waist. It was familiar: you riding him, setting the pace, your pussy clenching around his length as you ground against him. He thrusted up awkwardly at first, overthinking the angle, but the heat built anyway, your moans filling the room.
"Ah.." you breathed, rolling your hips, chasing that edge he could never quite push you over.
Yet tonight, something shifted. As you leaned forward, breasts brushing his chest, Jason's hands tightened—not in surrender, but in resolve.
He'd watched those videos, read the guides: how to make it about her pleasure first! His mind usually raced with the pressure to perform, but this time, it fueled him.
With a sudden surge, he flipped you both, his weight pinning you to the mattress. You gasped, surprised, your legs parting instinctively as he settled between them.
"Jason? What—"
He didn't answer right away, his face flushed, those blue eyes dark with determination. Instead, he kissed down your neck, nipping at your collarbone, then lower, tracing the curve of your breast with his tongue.
You arched, expecting him to slide back inside, but he kept going, lips trailing over your stomach, hands spreading your thighs wide.
His breath ghosted over your pussy, already slick from riding him, and your breath hitched. He'd never done this—never even hinted at it. Oral? That was unknown territory for him, something he'd jerked off to in secret, imagining your taste but too embarrassed to ask.
"Jason, you don't have to—" But his mouth was there before you could finish, tongue flicking tentatively against your clit.
It was clumsy at first, a hesitant lap, but then he remembered the videos: circles, pressure, the flat of the tongue. He pressed in, licking a broad stripe up your folds, tasting you fully for the first time. You moaned, loud and unrestrained, your fingers threading into his blond hair.
Because, holy shit, he had never done this before. Not once in all your relationship had he gone down on you; it was always hands or his cock, quick and to the point. But now? He was doing it, actually eating you out, his inexperience showing in the way he paused to adjust, but God, it felt good.
He grew bolder, sucking your clit between his lips, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. One hand braced on your thigh, the other slid up, two fingers teasing your entrance before pushing inside and curl them, seeking that spot he'd read about, the one that made women squirm.
You bucked against his face, the dual sensation— his tongue swirling, fingers pumping— sending sparks up your spine.
"Fuck, Jason," you talked between moans, your voice breaking. "Where did you learn this?"
It was messy— his chin glistened with your arousal, his breaths coming in hot puffs against your inner thigh and his cheeks red.
"I- I read about it. Online. In those... you know." He looked up at you, vulnerable but earnest, fingers still buried deep, stroking slowly. "Am I doing it right? Does it feel good?"
You could barely form words, pleasure coiling tight in your core. Instead of answering, you grabbed the back of his head, guiding him back down firmly.
"Keep going. Don't stop." Your voice was a command wrapped in a plea, and he obeyed, diving in with renewed focus.
His tongue worked faster now, alternating flicks and sucks, while his fingers thrusted deeper, hitting that ridge inside you with each curl. The pressure was building, relentless, with your hips grinding against his mouth as he devoured you.
You'd always taken the lead before, riding him to your satisfaction, but this— him taking care of you, learning on the fly— was intoxicating. His thick fingers stretched you sososoo damn right, slick with your arousal, and when he added a third, scissoring gently, you cried out, the fullness pushing you closer.
It built so fast, that orgasm, hotter and more intense than anything Jason had given you before. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets, and you shattered, whimpering his name as waves of pleasure crashed over you.
Your pussy clenched around his fingers, pulsing, and he didn't let up, licking you through it until you were shaking, oversensitive and boneless.
When he finally lifted his head, lips swollen and shiny, he looked triumphant. "Was that okay?"
You pulled him up, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his lips.
"More than okay. That was fucking incredible."
Your hand wrapped around his cock, still rock-hard and throbbing, the thick length pulsing in your grip. Precum beaded at the tip, and you stroked slowly, intending to reward him— climb on top again and let him feel you milk him dry. But Jason shook his head, a small smile breaking through his flush.
"Not this time." He caught your wrist, gently but firm, and pushed you back down, his body covering yours once more.
You laughed, breathless, as he positioned himself. "Bossy now?"
He didn't respond with words, just nudged the flushed, angry tip of his cock against your entrance, still sensitive from your climax.
He'd never known how to use his size before— thrusting too shallow or erratic, leaving you wanting. But right now, guided by all that secret studying, he pushed in slow and deep, inch by thick inch, filling you completely.
You moaned, legs wrapping around his waist, the stretch delicious after his fingers.
He started moving, hips rolling with purpose, not the hesitant pumps from your other encounters. Each thrust kissed your cervix with that swollen tip, a deep, insistent pressure.
"God, you're so tight," he muttered, voice rough, with his forehead pressed to yours. He adjusted his angle, pulling back almost out before slamming in, the head of his dick dragging right over your g-spot.
You gasped, nails digging into his back, the spot-on hit sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He'd read about it, watched the diagrams— how to angle for the maximum pleasure— and fuck, it worked. Every stroke targeted it, building that pressure again, faster than before.
Jason's rhythm steadied, his weight pinning you a bit as his hands braced on either side of your head. Sweat slicked his skin, his glasses fogging slightly as he fucked into you, harder now, the bed creaking under the force.
Your pussy gripped him like a vice, wet and hot, and he groaned, burying his face in your neck. "Feels so good— you feel so good."
He was still overthinking a little—you could see it in the way his brows furrowed—but it only made him more attentive, hips snapping with precision, chasing your reactions.
When you clenched around him, he hit that spot again, relentless, the thick base of his cock grinding against your clit with each hilt-deep thrust. You were lost in it, your body arching to meet him, the coil tightening impossibly fast.
"Jason— right there, don't stop."
He didn't, couldn't, pounding into you with a focus that bordered on fierce, his cock stretching and filling every inch. The room filled with the slap of skin and your shared breaths ragged.
He reached down, thumb finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles like he'd practiced in his mind from those videos. It was too much—the deep kisses to your cervix, the G-spot hammering, the added friction—and you shattered, your orgasm crashing in waves, pussy spasming around his thick length.
He followed seconds later, thrusting deep one last time, tip pressed flush against your depths as he came. Hot spurts filled you, a creamy rush that leaked out around him.
That was also new; the coming inside thing, but you were so fucke out and happy you didn't even care.
Jason collapsed half on you, both of you slick and spent, his cock twitching inside as the aftershocks rippled through.
For a moment, you just lay there, catching your breath, his head on your chest. Then he lifted up, pushing his glasses back into place with a sheepish grin.
"I... I wanted to get it right this time."
"You did more than right. That was heaven." You traced a finger along his jaw, smiling.
No more frustration or overthinking shadows. Jason Grace, the guy who'd never touched a girl before you, had leveled up. And damn if it didn't make you crave the next sex session already.
But as you drifted, sated and warm, Jason murmured against your skin, "Think I need more practice?"
You smirked, nipping his ear. "Only if you're volunteering." He laughed, the sound light, and for the first time, he didn't doubt the answer.
Hey! Is this the fic you’re looking for? https://www.tumblr.com/swirledyouintoallmypoems/807732536476303360/my-man-on-willpower-steve-harrington-x-femreader
no, but i actually have also been looking for this fic so thank you! 💗💗
guys i think im going crazy. there’s this writer on here i followed and i cant find their account idk if they changed their user or if they deleted their acc☹️ but they posted these steve harrington x reader series that was based during like the hawkins lockdown (i forgot what it was called) and steves parent were like stuck in florida so reader moved in and then eventually during the series they got engaged. can someone help me find the acc please i know that they hadnt posted since like february
reader that isn’t a bimbo? Reader that is put together and likes dressing up? Reader that’s older than 18-20? Reader that’s not white-coded??? Reader who doesn’t have daddy issues? Reader who does have daddy issues in a “man hater” way? Reader who’s taller than 4’11-5’0?? Reader who’s quiet and reserved and not in a robotic way or stuttering way? Reader who’s Tina Belcher coded? Reader who gives off the vibe of a creepy barn owl but somehow it’s endearing? Reader who’s charismatic and charming? Reader who’s-
parings 𝜗𝜚 nerd.ᐟ mike wheeler. ៹ fem .ᐟ reader ᧁ; classmates to lovers(?) ˒
warnings ⋆˚꩜ make out shesh
synopsis୨୧ you teach him how to kiss during a study sesh
.ᐟ authors note ⋆ ͘ . just because I wanted to lol. want to get notified for an imagine? comment which fandom & reblog for a tag!
As the classroom air was filled with the sounds of students socializing and laughter from certain cliques in different parts of the room, Mike was the only quiet one. He watched his math videos and kept his head buried in his books, that was until she caught his eye.
As she sat in the front of the classroom next to her friend, Y/n had just grabbed her lip gloss from her makeup pouch. The skinny tube with a gold cap was shining in the warm sunlight that lit up the classroom. It was almost as if Mike was hypnotized as he watched Y/n apply the pink-tinted gloss, the shimmer from her lips making him gulp to himself.
The girl continued to talk to her friend, oblivious to the eyes that stared her down as she put the enticing lip gloss back into her pouch. Mike so desperately wanted to know what flavor adorned her lips, and with each word she spoke, he became more and more entranced. With each shape her lips made, the shiny gloss glimmered, and just like his countless math equations and countless English experts, he memorized each shape.
He was so captivated he barely even noticed Y/n turning around to place her pouch back into her backpack. Just before turning around, her eyes flicked around the classroom, and she noticed the boy staring at her. Mike’s eyes widened as he made eye contact with the girl. Her lips curled into a smile as she looked at him. The boy glanced at her lips and back to her eyes, forcing a small smile back.
As Y/n turned around and continued her conversation with her friends, Mike shrank back into his seat and sighed, cheeks burning hot with embarrassment. He shook his head, pushing up his glasses from the bridge of his nose; and went back to his studying, trying to focus on his work.
As time went on and Mike continued to study, his thoughts were still clouded by thoughts of Y/n. He could not focus on any of his equations or studies during the whole class because he was so focused on her. Lucas noticed as he stared at her for the 100th time that day, kicking the boy’s chair leg to catch his attention, “You’re staring again.”
“What?”
Lucas let out a scoff as he rolled his eyes, “You’ve been staring at her all day.”
Mike’s eyes flickered to Y/n before looking at Lucas. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Lucas let out a breathy chuckle. “Sure.” He said before laying his head back down on his arm pillow to go back to sleep.
Mike rolled his eyes and went back to watching his tutor video, eyes glancing up at her. He watched as she applied another layer of lip gloss, the gloss coating her plump lips. He felt his mouth almost water as he watched the pink tint catch the sunlight as she studied her notes.
Everyone had finished their notes and studying now as the school bell rang everyone shuffled out of the classroom desperate to get home or do whatever activities they wanted to participate in after school, but not Mike. His priorities were the textbook and notebook that was laid out on his desk. Y/n waited behind everyone else waving her friends and other classmates goodbye as they left.
Once everyone was out of the classroom Y/n turned to Mike who had an old pair of old headphones on that he probably got from Nancy; oblivious to her presence. Y/n hesitantly walked up to the boy and tapped on his desk careful not to startle him. Mike looked up and took off his set of headphones.
“Yes?”
Y/n smiled as she looked at the boy. “Hey Mike, I was wondering if you could help me out with the recent topic we went over. I’m having some trouble, and I know you study a lot, so I was wondering if I could get your help?” The boy did not blink for a moment as he tried to comprehend the words that came out of her mouth. ‘She wants me to tutor her?’ He thought.
“Yeah, I don’t mind.”
A bigger smile appeared on her lips as she looked at the boy. Her leftover lipgloss shining just as bright as her smile. She quickly grabbed a nearby chair and sat down at the boy’s desk.
As she took out her notebook and pencil, she also took out the tube of lip gloss that had been taunting Mike all day, the gold cap glimmering in the sun once more. Mike watched the lip gloss in the girl’s hand as she unscrewed the cap and applied another layer. The boy felt his mouth water as he watched, this time taking the moment to take in her features. The way her blush flushed her cheeks, and the glint of light in her eyes.
“Sorry.” Y/n spoke up as she finished applying the gloss, “The weather change has been causing my lips to get chapped, and I forgot my lip balm at home this morning.”
Mike shook his head, “I get it. My lips get chapped sometimes, too.”
Y/n smiled. the two began to study, Y/n asking questions when needed. “I’m a bit confused here. I think I’m not doing this step right because I’m getting a different answer.” The boy took a look at her notebook, retracing each step she wrote as she did each problem. “You’re not rounding here, so it throws everything off.”
Y/n looked at her paper and realized her mistake. “Wow, thank you! I was going crazy trying to figure out what I was doing wrong.”
The two continued to work in silence, Y/n asking for help when she needed and Mike explaining it to her in detail each time. After a moment of silence, Mike looked up, watching Y/n write in her notebook. He watched her as he wrote down problems and worked them out, his eyes scanning each part of her face. His eyes landed on her lips, and he could not stop looking.
The way the glitter glimmered and the pink tint brought color to her plump lips. His mind did not wander to perverted thoughts as he looked at them, but to thoughts of how beautiful she looked. The color complemented the light makeup she wore that day.
“You’re staring.”
Mike was so entranced he barely realized that Y/n was now looking back at him, “What?”
“You’re staring.” The girl repeated. “Is there something on my face?”
He shook his head no as blood flushed his ears.
Y/n smiled. “You look nervous. Is something wrong?” The boy shook his head once more, feeling the heat spread to his cheeks. Y/n leaned in a little closer to the boy, examining his face.
“You’re all red.”
Y/n’s voice almost had an oblivious and innocent tone to it, unaware of the nervousness she made Mike feel. His eyes flickered to her lips before back to her eyes. The ends of Y/n’s lips curled into a smile as she noticed the small pathway the boy’s eyes took, “Have you ever kissed a girl before?” Y/n rested her head on her hands as she looked at the boy. He still looked at her, his glare intense as ever.
“That’s not important.”
“So, no then.”
Mike bit the inside of his cheek as the girl taunted him.
“Would you like to?”
Mike did not say anything, but his eyes flickered to her lips once more, giving Y/n all the confirmation she needed.
Y/n leaned over the desk, slowly breaking the space between the two. Mike tensed up and did not move as their lips touched, making Y/n pull back. “Is everything okay?” She questioned, concern in her tone. “I can stop.” Mike shook his head. Almost took quickly as he tried to get a coherent sentence out. “I don’t know what to do.”
Y/n let out a small chuckle. “Just relax and do what feels right, okay?” Mike continued to look at her with his intense gaze.
Y/n leaned back in, closing the space once more. Mike relaxed, feeling the sticky gloss touch his lips. Y/n’s words replayed in his mind as she slowly moved her lips, making him follow suit. He gently placed his hand on the nook of her jaw, bringing her in closer.
‘Her lips taste like cherries.” He thought as he kissed back, this time more confidently.
Y/n placed her hands on the boy’s lap as she leaned closer to him, deepening the kiss. Mike moved his hands down to her shoulders, each movement igniting a confidence in the boy. Y/n tilted her head as she brought the boy closer, her chest pressing against his loose flannel. Mike decided he was confident enough to try something. His tongue parting his lips and prodding as the thinning lipgloss, parting her lips.
The girl let out a small huff as she opened her mouth just wide enough to let the boy’s tongue explore her mouth.
Mike loved this.
He relished in the small breathes she let out as his tongue tangled with hers, how she tried to pull the boy closer despite each gap between them was filled, and the taste of cherry that ruminated through his mouth along with small coarse bits of glitter. He loved it all.
Y/n was the first to pull away, her hands still on the boys shoulders. “I don’t know how.” She mocked in a sarcastic tone. Mike let out a chuckle, his nose scrunching with amusement. “I mean, I have a pretty good tutor.” Y/n’s lips curled into a small sly smile as she pulled the boy a bit closer.
